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A Prophet and The Art of the Steal

Ever since it came out, in 1972, The Godfather has been the benchmark of crime movies—filmmakers never stop trying to equal it. No one has come any closer than Jacques Audiard, whose Cannes hit A Prophet just won the BAFTA for Best Foreign Language Film and is up for an Oscar in the same category. It charts the rise of a young Arab convict, Malik El Djebena (Tahar Rahim), a petty criminal in prison who is lost and a bit frightened. He soon falls under the sway of a Corsican mob kingpin (Niels Arestrup, magnificent), a sinister mentor who, in forcing him to do terrible things, helps him to discover his own destiny. Taut, exciting, and at times literally magical (Malik is regularly visited by a ghost), this epic piece of storytelling does what the finest crime films do: It uses its outlaw hero to paint a portrait of a whole society in which outsiders do what they must to survive. And it does so without cheap romanticism. Lucidly directed and co-written by Audiard (The Beat That My Heart Skipped), the movie makes us pull for Malik, even as we know that he’s up to no good. The role is a career-making showcase for Rahim, a handsome 28-year-old newcomer who, just like Malik, seizes his big chance. He captures all the fear, anger, and blossoming ambition of a seeming loser who learns the hard way how to make the world an offer it can't refuse. The crimes are metaphorical in The Art of the Steal, an absorbing new art-world documentary that unfolds like a thriller. It’s about the battle to control the legacy of Dr. Albert C. Barnes, a self-taught Philadelphia collector who, starting about a century ago, began acquiring an epochal Post-Impressionist collection—including 181 Renoirs, 69 Cézannes, 59 Matisses, and 46 Picassos—that beggars those of even great museums. At the time, the hidebound Philadelphia art establishment mocked his paintings; soon enough, it wanted to acquire them, even though Barnes (who despised the local elite) was dead set against it. What followed was a decades-long free-for-all involving Barnes’s acolytes, the Barnes Foundation trustees (some slippery as eels), well-heeled Philly families like the Annenbergs, and even admired groups like the Pew Charitable Trusts. It’s a tricky tale, but director Don Argott does an admirably clear job of explaining the schemes, backroom maneuvers, and wheeler-dealer shenanigans that eventually left Barnes’s $25 billion collection in the hands of his enemies. While the movie would be better if Argott at least feigned being even-handed—surely there’s one intelligent critic who thinks Barnes’s art ought to be on open public display in Philadelphia—The Art of the Steal reminds us that, as ever, some of the biggest crimes are perfectly legal.